Brotherly Bargain
by Edwards-Ebed
Summary: A violent drug cartel abducts Sherlock Holmes after two of their operations in the UK have been shutdown. They upload the videos of torture online, gaining the attention of both the British government and Mycroft.
1. In Loving Misery

**A/N:** I've had running in my head for a few years and, because I've no life, I finally decided to flesh it out. I've always had this idea that Mycroft manages to piss off the wrong group of people, so in retaliation, they go after his brother.

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

* * *

 **1**

 **In Loving Misery**

"Are you going to sit there all day?" John Watson's voice cut through the silence of 221B Baker Street. He stared with annoyance blatant on his features, to which his flatmate and friend, Sherlock Holmes, dutifully ignored. John pursed his lips, exhaling forcefully as he gave Sherlock the same look he always gave when the young genius was driving him mad.

When he left the flat that morning, Sherlock was lying in the same position on the couch, a book held firmly over his face with his eyes darting back-and-forth between words. Though John was certain Sherlock was holding a different book then.

"Isn't there a new case or something?" he put emphasis on the last word, wanting to gain some sort of response. Yet, the only response he received was Sherlock's nonchalant shrug.

"London is…quiet for the moment," he said, his voice hinting aggravation.

John nodded, his eyes trailing around the room, which was in disarray, just as he left earlier that morning. It was only more evidence of Sherlock's disdaining boredom.

"Right," John drew own, his eyes falling back on Sherlock, who was turning ahead in whatever book he had buried his nose into. "And that doesn't bother you in the least?"

"Quite the contrary," was the immediate response, having John raise his brows in curiosity. "I am bored out of my _mind_."

With the finished word, John gazed at him intently, but wound up rolling his eyes as Sherlock turned yet another page. "Well, then I don't know about you, but I'm starving, and since you threw out my roast to house someone's leg in the fridge—"

"It's necessary for an experiment."

"—I'm going to go out for a meal and you, Sherlock Holmes, are more than welcomed to join me."

Sherlock's eyes darted to him for the first time since he came through the door, before quickly moving back to his book, which John just realized was on the American serial killer John Wayne Gacy. Before Sherlock could even voice it, John knew what the man was going to say. He was going to comment on—

"Clean-shaven, hair groomed with only a few hairs sticking out, shirt clean and ironed – You were preparing to meet that shop keep from last night, but she turned you down last minute. Now you've got a reservation for two at a restaurant you've been wanting to try, but no one to go with." John sighed and, while anyone else's interpretation would have been irritation, his was more-or-less of understanding with only a hint of annoyance, which he knew Sherlock picked up on. "How's their tea?" Sherlock asked without prompting, causing John to chuckle.

"Better than what you serve." Sherlock scoffed. "You're coming, then," he phrased with certainty, instead of a question.

"So incessant, John," he said as he shut his book and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. "I could do with some nutrients, I suppose."

Inwardly, John smiled.

He had not seen Sherlock eat the last week, so for the man to willingly go out to supper made him, in a way, feel fortunate. He doubted anyone else could have swayed Sherlock Holmes into doing what they wanted, but if living with the genius taught John anything, it was how to work around Sherlock's quirks and to manipulate – to get him how to do what he wanted. While he was certain Sherlock knew what he was doing, he had yet to call him out on it, leading John to believe his opinion mattered.

Within a few minutes, Sherlock was dressed to his normality, overcoat and scarf included, and he and John were out on the sidewalk, walking to the restaurant John had been so looking forward to.

The streets were fairly vacant and the streetlights already lit, casting shadows every which way. A couple was walking on the opposite side of the street, both obviously intoxicated, whereas they were both laughing obnoxiously as the two men could overhear them discussing past matters. The woman was latched onto her partner's arm, doubling over and stumbling several times before they turned the corner. Even as the distance increased, they could still hear the couple's laughter. There was a man talking hastily on his cell phone, walking towards the duo, paying them no attention as he was heard shouting at the person on the other end, who Sherlock concluded was his wife, judging by the tone and subject. He failed to notice the six-foot detective, bumping into him and offering no apology, instead flowing into a slew of curses to the woman over the phone.

John made a comment about the subject matter, which made them both chuckle, garnering an odd look from another man passing by.

Just as they turned the corner, a female bumped into both of their shoulders, her nose having been buried in her phone. She immediately fell into an apology, before her eyes trailed up to their faces. Her gaze fell on John first, and then darted over to Sherlock, when her eyes appeared to light up.

At the change in demeanour, Sherlock inadvertently rolled his eyes.

"Oh, my god. You're Sherlock Holmes," she said, entire face beaming. Her breath appeared to catch in her throat and she moved to look at John. "And you're Doctor Watson. I follow all the cases on your blog, and I think you two are fabulous."

"Oh, um, thank you," John sputtered, indiscreetly knocking his shoulder into Sherlock, getting the detective to force a smile to the young woman.

The woman smiled, her face turning red. "Apologies. You two are out on a date and I didn't mean to intrude."

Before either man could respond, the woman scuttled off, knocking into both of them as she ran down the sidewalk. Sherlock was snickering, while John was trying to refrain from calling after her about not being in a relationship. John looked at him in disbelief, as though expecting some form of back-up. When Sherlock gave none, John pursed his lips in annoyance and began walking again, speeding up his pace in an attempt to put distance between them for the moment.

After making another right and walking the block to stand outside of the restaurant, he turned to see how far back his friend was, only to see he had not yet turned the corner. He waited another moment, but when Sherlock still failed to round the street, he released an aggravated sigh, his steps heavy in annoyance as he retraced his steps. When he turned onto the street, he expected to see Sherlock caught up in reading a flyer or something of the like; instead, he was introduced to his best mate leaning his back against a building, holding his head, appearing to sway.

He ran up to him, immediately placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, peering into his face.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The younger man, whose eyes were closed, shook his head. "I've been drugged," he said, his voice sounding distant,

John's face was overcome with confusion. "What? How? By whom?"

Sherlock shook his head. "That woman, I think—" he was cut off, his head falling forward while his body began going limp.

John found himself supporting Sherlock's full weight as he escorted the man to the ground, his back sliding down the building. Once on the ground, John grabbed Sherlock's face, lightly slapping his cheek, making the genius' eyes flutter open.

"Sherlock! Stay with me, come on." Sherlock's body fell forward, falling into his shoulder before he was able to say a word. Heart racing, he held his friend with one arm while pulling his cell phone from his pocket with the other. Yet, before he could dial, he felt a searing pain radiate through his head and neck, his vision going dark.

* * *

John awoke to a bright light shining in his eyes and a throbbing headache. Sally Donovan was leaning over him, shining a penlight into his eyes as she lifted his eyelid, looking for an apparent concussion. The doctor groaned, trying to roll his neck while Donovan kept his head in place. His entire head pounded, his frontal lobe aching with a dull pain, the light aiding in no comfort. Behind Donovan, he could see the blur of a blue lights from a police car. Her voice sound muffled and distant, but he was certain she was calling his name.

"John," her voice finally pieced through the veil of haze. "Yeah, a minor one by the looks of it," she responded to a question the doctor did not hear. His vision began coming into focus, the features of the detective filling his view. "Can you stand?" she asked, to which he groaned as he rolled to the side, nodding. She helped him to his feet, holding his arm as he stumbled.

His back hit the outside of the building and he placed his hands on his knees, inhaling while his head pulsed. Her hand was on his shoulder to help stabilize him.

"John, what happened?" came the familiar voice of Greg Lestrade.

Peering up, Lestrade was now standing in front of him, his face filled with concern. With a glance around, he realized there was more than one patrol car; there were four, along with an ambulance that had just turned onto the street.

His attention was drawn back to the inspector, his eyebrows knitting in confusion as he tried to piece together why he was awakened on the sidewalk with a torch. He shook his head. "I – I can't remember." He held his head, recalling walking down the stairs of 221B Baker Street with Sherlock in front of him.

Where were they going and why?

"How'd you know I was here?" He was hoping the answer would fill in to blanks.

"Someone called, saying they saw a dark van speeding off and an unconscious man on the ground," Donovan responded. She waved over to the emergency medical responders, who were just getting out of the ambulance.

His head shot up to stare at her, a look of realization flooding his features.

Seeing the expression, Lestrade's concern filled his speech. "What? What happened?"

As the medical personnel approached him, he tried to push them away, saying he was fine. "Sherlock." He clamped his eyes shut, recalling the memory of seeing his friend's failing state. "Where is he? Greg, Sherlock was with me. He was drugged – where is he?"

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged glances, the older man's going into one of confusion and panic.

"Sherlock was with you?" he asked as if in confirmation, to which John nodded violently.

"I'm fine," he yelled at the paramedic who was still trying to walk him over to the ambulance. When the young paramedic tried to protest, John cut him off. "I'm a doctor, it's fine! It's a minor concussion and I don't need to go to the hospital to confirm that, now please stop touching me!"

The medic looked to Lestrade and Donovan for confirmation, rolling his eyes in aggravation when Lestrade nodded.

"Please tell me he's with you," John said, referring to Sherlock as his eyes darted between Lestrade and Donovan. When he saw their expressions, his entire body dropped. "We have to find him. There was a woman." He fell into Donovan as his head swam, recalling the young woman who claimed to be a fan when she ran into them. He held his head and pulled back from her, wobbling slightly as he stood, regaining his sense of balance. "There was a woman who came up to us and I think she somehow managed to drug Sherlock," he finally spoke coherently.

"What did she look like? We can put out an APB for anyone fitting her description."

John tried to recall her appearance.

He remembered her red hair and freckled face, but could not remember her eye colour. She was slender and he knew she was eye-level with him, putting her height at about 170cm; she had been wearing a dress – a type of sun dress if he remembered correctly – but could not recall the pattern, if it even had one.

The description he gave was fairly vague, but it was the most he recalled and was able to give for the police to put a bulletin for anyone fitting her appearance.

It was not until the early hours of the morning when John returned to 221B Baker Street. He had waited at the police station for hours, hoping for a call to come in, fitting the female's description; but when nothing came in, Lestrade convinced him to return home.

He understood.

Most people were home for the evening and would not pay attention to the news or any type of alert until the following morning. When he did return home, the thought of sleep had never crossed his mind, despite the heaviness tugging at his eyelids. Instead, he found his way to the kitchen, where he found himself making tea. He settled down in his usual spot, his laptop opened and phone turned on full volume, waiting to hear something from someone.

* * *

Creaking filled the room.

On the ceiling, a lone light hung down, drenching the cement walls in a low, orange light. The room held few items: what appeared to be a blood-soaked mattress sat in the far-right corner, which was butted against a set of pipes. A metal door at the South end of the windowless room was opened, leading into a dark hallway that seemed to curve in every which way. In the centre of the room was a loan wooden chair with steel d-rings bolted to the ground around it. Attached to the rings were chains, which were connected to shackles around the wrists and ankles of a young detective.

A deep groan escaped his throat, his eyes flittering open to see the orange light hanging directly above him. When he shifted, finding his hands chained behind the chair and his ankles chained to the floor, his realization seemed to come into perspective. He recalled going to a restaurant with John, only for his head and body to feel numb after John had disappeared from view. He saw the image of the young woman who claimed to be a fan before she ran off.

He shifted his hands, pulling at the chain and trying to find a weak point. The metal shackles dug into his wrists. When he tested those around his ankles, he realized he was barefooted, which prior experience told him was never a good start.

He clamped his eyes shut, allowing his head to roll to the front.

A sharp headache made itself apparent.

The sound of boots on concrete drew his attention to the door in front of him. Squinting, he looked up to see a shadowed figure walking down the hallway. Between the pounding headache and aftereffects of whatever he had been drugged with, his vision was blurred; so when the figure came to a stop inside the room, all he could see was the blurry silhouette of a man. He blinked a few times, trying to focus.

"Top o' the morning!" they shouted, their voice bouncing off the walls, increasing the throbbing of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock shut his eyes and shook his head. "Must you be so loud?"

The response he received was a chuckle. "In your case, yes."

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows.

The man's accent was slight and forced, making the detective realize he was not British, nor part of the United Kingdom. Opening his eyes, they began to focus, albeit slowly.

The man before him was broad, though not heavy, wearing what looked to be a navy-blue t-shirt and cut jeans. Despite the appearance, it was clear that the clothing was expensive, most likely designer from a higher-end store. The boots Sherlock had heard were steel-toed and black, covered in what looked to be bits of dirt and dried liquid. He wore two rings on each hand, bulky and scratched; a cell phone was in his left hand, unlocked with the screen brightness shining on his jeans. On his arms, Sherlock could see the faint lines of track marks.

"Do I owe money to someone I'm unaware exists?" Sherlock asked, his voice somewhat slurred. The man gave him a curious look. "You clearly shoot up regularly, but your clothing suggests you're a dealer more than a user." The man nodded, obviously impressed. "I'm assuming heroin, judging by your pupils."

The man smiled in excitement. "Oh, you're good. I like you."

"Could you drop the accent? It's quite painful to listen to one that bad."

The man laughed and clapped his hands. "I thought my accent was pretty spot-on, to be honest. But leave it to a professional detective to call me out on it." Once he spoke normally, Sherlock placed it in the Americas, most likely Southwestern if he had to pick a quadrant based on the Americans he has heard. His phone buzzed and he held it up, reading and responding to whatever text he had received.

"Texting your boss to tell him you've got me chained to a chair?" he asked, voice flooded with sarcasm.

"Oh, we actually have very little interest in you, Sherlock Holmes. But you see," he held up his phone to face Sherlock. "Your brother, Mycroft, has been a thorn in our side, as of late and we – do smile pretty, won't you? – never do like people intervening with our affairs." The flash from the camera went off as Sherlock gave a sardonic smile. He brought the phone down and continued texting.

"Brilliant plan, but you miscounted." The man's eyebrows went up in curiosity, but he did not trail his gaze from his phone. "Mycroft's never been one to negotiate, so all of this won't bend in your favour."

The man looked up from his phone, contemplating, before a smile graced his features. "No one's expecting an immediate response, Mr. Holmes. But believe me when I tell you that he will eventually, unless he's always wanted to see his little brother die."

Sherlock shrugged.

"You might be surprised."

The man closed the distance between them and reached down, grabbing Sherlock's chin and forcing his head up.

"I doubt it." He cocked his head, inspecting the other's features as his fingernails dug into Sherlock's cheek. "Though you do look a bit too clean for their liking. So why don't we try giving a bit of incentive, hm?"

With that, he let go right before the back of his hand quickly and painfully struck Sherlock across the face. He repeated the action with his other hand, doing it several times, barely garnering an audible groan. When he finished, he stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

Sherlock's face was red, blood slowly seeped out of a few areas of now-broken skin, as well as his mouth, which had been cut on his teeth.

The man nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"A bit better." He took his phone back out and aimed it at the detective once more. "Come on, look up," he said, snapping his fingers. Once Sherlock looked at him, the flash went off. Again, the man began texting. "Let's call this a little portfolio of your progress. Because if Mycroft really couldn't care, they're going to need some way to identify the body." He put his phone into his pocket, a disturbingly innocent smile on his face. "Tell me, Sherlock. How are you with being on film?"

 _~TBC_


	2. Picture of Madness

I legit did not think anyone was reading this on here!  
I've been positing the updates to AO3 because I didn't get any feedback here on FanFiction.

Just-Me-and-My-Brain, it was because of your notification in my e-mail where I was like, "Oh, shit. I did upload that to FanFiction, didn't I? Oops!"  
And LuvFiction Xxxx, I wasn't even aware you commented at all! So sorry!

Anyway,  
here's the second chapter! Just a heads-up, though, this fic gets dark.  
Like...really dark.

If you're interested in that, let me know! If you don't, then I don't know if you want me to keep posting here!

* * *

 **2**  
 **Picture of Madness**

The police station bustled with chatter, typing and the ringing of phones. The bulletin for the woman John and Sherlock had seen the night prior was still out with no word, which was only growing concern from the few he held close. John had entered the station early that morning, having failed to sleep due to his growing concern. One of the officers who had been assigned to the case offered him coffee, which the doctor took willingly, craving any from of caffeine to keep him awake.

He was currently held up in Lestrade's office, his cell phone on his lap, in hopes to hear something. The detective inspector came in late that morning, most likely for the same reason John had not slept. When he did come in, his eyes were hooded, he spoke in slurs and his being overall exuded fatigue. He barely acknowledged John as he walked to his office and unlocked the door. John asked if he had heard anything, to which the answer was "no", before he was asked the very same question, giving the same response.

At roughly nine-thirty that morning, a young female entered the station.

She was nervously grasping at the hem of her dress, requesting to see either Sergeant Donovan or Detective Lestrade. One of the officers dismissed her; yet, when John saw her through the blinds of Lestrade's office, he got up and scrambled through the precinct, grabbing the young woman's arm.

Her red hair and freckled face was that of shock and apprehension.

"Who are you?" John's voice came out demanding, verging on the edge of anger.

The young woman panicked, her expression becoming fearful as she stared into John's eyes. Donovan, seeing what was happening, crossed the room to stand between them, her hand on John's arm, getting him to release the young female.

"Doctor Watson," was all she got out before John looked accusingly at the red-haired female.

"She's the woman we saw last night," he spoke louder than he may have intended.

Donovan adverted her eyes to the female, whose expression was filled with anxiety and concern.

"I'm sorry," she said hastily, her hands reaching to grab the strap of the satchel around her shoulder. "My friend heard the radio this morning and…I think you were looking for me." Her grip tightened on the strap, gaining looks from both the sergeant and doctor.

"John, calm down," Donovan said, holding her hand up to cut him off from responding. She turned her attention to the woman. "What's your name?" The strict voice she typically utilized was absent, which seemed to have the young woman relax somewhat.

"Allison Maydock." Donovan nodded, but as she was about to reply, John interjected:

"You were the woman who ran into us," he reiterated, clearly upset as Lestrade came up, curious to the commotion going on. Her nerves seemed wracked, her gaze adverted downwards. "Where's Sherlock? What did you do?"

At the question, the woman, Allison, jerked her head up, as though coming to a sudden realization. "He is missing?"

With her inflection of that trying to confirm a suspicion, they all were taken by surprise.

"Where is he? What did you do to him?" John demanded, his voice tight and jaw tight.

She shook her head at the accusation. "Nothing! But there was a video on the site—" she cut herself off, as though regretting what she had said.

"Site?" Lestrade asked, stepping next to her. "What site?" When she did not respond, the detective inspector turned to stand straight in front of her. "If you are keeping any information from a police investigation, you can be charged with obstruction, do you understand?"

She fell quiet for a moment, battling with herself on whether or not to respond. After an awkward moment, she said quietly, "I – it's a Sherlock kink site." At the expressions she was given – Lestrade's confusion, Donovan's disgust and John's incredulous stare – her face flushed red and she shook her head. "No – no – no! It's not like that! It's all fake, nothing's real!" She looked down at her feet, gripping the strap tighter. "It's where people write stories and draw and dress up. No one on the site actually wants to see or hear about the real Sherlock Holmes getting hurt. That's not what it's about," she said frantically. "But this morning…someone uploaded a video and no one on the site thinks it's a fake. A lot of people were saying to report it, but I don't know if anyone has."

"We need to see that video," Lestrade's voice came out firm, demanding.

The girl nodded as she shook with anxiety.

As Donovan escorted the young woman to Lestrade's office, Lestrade looked at John, whose eyebrows were furrowed upwards, apprehension written across his face, though Lestrade was certain his expression mirrored the same.

Once in the office, Donovan was leaning over the chair that the young woman now sat in. The sergeant motioned to the computer and Lestrade strode over to put in his passcode. He stepped back and gave the young woman free range, glancing up only to motion for John to close the door. The woman typed the site into the address bar.

When the homepage came on the screen, they were introduced to a slew of fan made pictures with Sherlock in compromising positions. Donovan made her disgust apparent, asking rhetorically, "Why does this exist?" as she turned her head away from the screen. Both Lestrade and John shifted uncomfortably, while John momentarily stared up at the ceiling, exhaling an awkward breath. Allison was silent, her eyes fixated on the screen as she scrolled down to where there was a link for "videos." Both of her hands were shaking as she tried her best to maintain a straight face, which was a bright red. Having an inspector, a sergeant and Sherlock's best mate peering at a webpage that should never have been made known to them had her heart pounding in her chest, feeling as though it might explode at any given moment.

Seeing the obvious look of discomfort, they had a silent agreement to not make her feel even more awkward.

The cursor ghosted over the thumbnail of the most recent video, which had a timestamp of four twenty-one that morning. The thumbnail showed three men, one of which was in a chair with their neck craned back and a white washcloth over their face; one of the other men was holding both sides of the cloth, keeping it tight on the other's face, while the last man was standing to the side, his head towards the camera.

Taking her hand off the mouse, she looked up at Donovan, whose eyes were analysing the picture.

"I couldn't even watch it the first time," Allison said, her voice shaking. "Please don't make me sit through it."

Donovan looked to Lestrade.

"Could you go ahead and get her statement?" Lestrade asked the female sergeant, though it was more of a directive.

Although she appeared annoyed that she would not be able to watch whatever the video entailed, Donovan still nodded and placed her hand on the young girl's shoulder. Taking her out of the room, John and Lestrade waited until they saw both of them at Donovan's desk before turning their attention back to the computer.

Clearly hesitant, Lestrade grabbed the mouse and hovered over the thumbnail. As though nervous of what he would see, a verbal acknowledgement from John gave him the final push to click.

The moment the video opened, Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, his expression going into a panic. John's breath caught in his throat and he began shaking his head, refusing to believe what he saw.

The camera was focused on Sherlock, apparently beaten, who was chained to a chair on the floor. One man stood next to him, his stature tall and lean, wearing a white t-shirt and black cargo pants. His face was covered with a black half mask, only exposing the bridge of his nose and up. The camera appeared to shift, as someone behind it angled it to where they wanted, with Sherlock in the direct centre.

"Don't look so nervous, Sherlock. Keep a strong face for Mycroft, won't you?" a man with an American accent spoke off-screen. Despite the man's comment, Sherlock's expression was that of disinterest. "Give a smile for the camera, darling." The camera zoomed in on Sherlock's face, who gave a cynical smile before falling back to a resting position. The camera zoomed back out. The person behind the camera laughed. "I'm sure your attitude will change in a moment."

"Doubtful," Sherlock responded, his eyes focused beyond the camera, most likely on the speaker.

There was a laugh. The man had finally entered the screen, walking up to Sherlock right before he hit the detective across the face. He grabbed the front of Sherlock's button-up.

"It damn well better, because your current attitude's pissing me off." He directed his attention towards the camera, or behind it, so it seemed. With a motion of his head, he was tossed a white cloth, which he held up in view of both the camera and Sherlock. "Know what this is?"

At the question, the detective rolled his eyes. "Have we moved on to game shows, now?"

The demeanour of the man suddenly changed and he grabbed Sherlock's throat, gripping tight enough to stop blood flow. "Keep this up and you'll end up in pieces scattered around the fucking country before the sun comes up, got it?" With the blood pounding in his ears and face turning a dark red, Sherlock failed to respond, causing the man to grip tighter. "Got it?!"

A garbled "yes" seem to be what he wanted and he let go, stepping back. Sherlock sucked in breath-after-breath, mixed with several coughs.

"Now do some math, _detective_ ," he said mockingly. "You already know what's coming, so you might as well play along." Sherlock locked eyes with him, not responding, his jaw tightening. He handed the cloth to the man in the mask, before being handed a jug of water from the person off-screen.

"Not really thirsty at the moment, but I do appreciate the offer."

The only reaction he received was the masked man pulling the white cloth over his face and pulling back, forcing Sherlock's head backwards. "Get your last breath in, Mr. Holmes," the unmasked man said as he undid the lid to the water jug. "You're going to need it."

Right as Sherlock gasped through the cloth, the man began pouring water over it.

Almost immediately, Sherlock began jerking against the chains and shackles that held him. The chair scratched on the floor in the few centimetres it could move as the young genius tried whatever he could to get away, but was unable. With the pouring being slow, the experience of drowning was extended, causing Sherlock to become erratic, his body spasming more with each second. It was not until the jug was half empty when the water stopped and the cloth was removed from his face, revealing a coughing, sputtering and gagging Sherlock.

He was only given a few seconds of reprieve before the cloth was pulled back over his face. All he could get out was a partial protest that quickly was drowned out.

The duo took the second round slower, drawing out each insufferable gargle and cough. The shackles around the young genius' ankles and wrists cut into him as he fought, drawing minimal amounts of blood, which quickly disappeared into the cement floor. His body began convulsing when the jug was still a quarter full, which the others took advantage of, having the water come out of the jug barely above a dribble and keeping the cloth saturated.

By the time they finished and removed the cloth, Sherlock was unresponsive.

"Goddamn it," the unmasked man groaned. With his free hand, he started to lightly smack Sherlock's face. "It's too early to die, Sherlock. C'mon. Wakey, wakey."

When he garnered no response, a frown befell his face. He put his hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed below the ribcage.

Almost immediately, Sherlock came-to, coughing and choking, though nothing came up. He began sucking in breath-after-breath when his body came to the realization it could breathe once again. While his fit went on, the unmasked man moved to grab the camera off of the apparent-tripod. He focused it on Sherlock's face, who had turned from red to a dark purple as the coughs went on. When the young detective had finally stopped coughing and leaned his head back, his breath haggard, the camera zoomed in close to his mouth, seeing his tongue drop to the bottom of his jaw as the back of his throat opened completely to allow more airflow.

Behind the camera, the man inhaled, releasing the air through his teeth.

"I can't wait to put that mouth to better use," he said, voice coming out in a moan.

With that said, the camera shut off, the screen going black as the video ended.

In front of his mouth, John's fist was in a grip, his hand shaking.

Lestrade's hands were on the back of his neck, his eyes locked onto the computer screen, even as it went to black with the option of replaying.

As they stood dumbstruck in front of the computer screen, they failed to notice Donovan opening the door, stepping into the room.

Before she spoke, her eyes darted to both of them, her expression becoming curious and concerned. When Lestrade finally looked up to her, his eyes red and brows furrowed upwards, her demeanour tensed, demanding to know what had gone on.


	3. Brotherly Requiem

Thank you all so much for reading! (^ ^*)  
I'm currently up to chapter 8, so I'll be uploading all of that here on FanFiction within the next week.

 **LuvfictionXxxx** , thank you so much! Keeping people in character is why my chapters typically take so long..Because keeping them in-sync with the scenarios never come easy, so hearing that I DO keep them in-character makes me really happy!

 **sarahlucylu** , I hope you stick around! It's gonna get worse before it gets better!

 **Just-Me-and-My-Brain** , that's up to you, lovie. (^ ^) I'll be uploading all of the parts here on FanFiction and, seeing as how chapter 9 is giving me issues, I'll probably have all eight chapter here on FanFiction before that's even complete. xD

* * *

 **3**  
 **Brotherly Requiem**

John was forced to return to 221B Baker Street after a break down against the woman – Allison – as she sat at Donovan's desk. As he was escorted out by Lestrade and another officer, the woman was in tears, apologizing for something that she was not at fault for. A cab was hailed and paid for by the detective inspector, instructing the cabbie to take John directly to the flat, even if the doctor told him otherwise. During the ride, all he could think about was the video, his anger growing with his passing moment – anger at the video, the abductors, the woman…himself for losing his situational awareness upon seeing his friend disoriented the night prior.

He knew better.

His training had _taught_ him better, yet it still failed him when he should have been on-guard.

Upon arriving outside the flat, he barely acknowledged the cabbie as he got out and slammed the door closed. The driver drove off as John walked the two steps to stand in front of the door and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it in a long exhale. The last thing he wanted to do was go inside and do nothing while the state of his best mate was unknown, but he also knew he had to get his bearings straight before he would be any good to anyone.

After the hesitation, he finally entered the flat, shutting the door lightly behind him while he peered up the stairs, as though listening for Sherlock's presence; whether it be the violin, loud banging, yelling or, his least favourite, gunfire. Hearing nothing, his heart dropped and shut his eyes. More times than not, he had hoped to come home to quiet after a stressful day, but now that it was, it was unnerving and he found himself regretting ever wanting it to be quiet.

He had to fight with himself to ascend the stairs.

When he came outside the door, his brow furrowed, seeing it slightly ajar.

Palm to the door, he slowly pushed it open, readying himself for an inevitability. Instead, when he saw who was standing by the table between the windows, he dropped his shoulders.

"You're a little late, don't you think?" his voice came out in aggravation as his hands found their way to his hips. When he did not get a response, his jaw clenched. His eyes moving to the opened laptop before going right back to the intruder.

Mycroft looked up at him as he turned the laptop's screen to face him and pressed the spacebar. The sound of Sherlock gagging and choking filled the room. John did not bother looking at the screen and, instead, locked eyes with the taller man; the anger he had managed to quell in the hall grew with each second the video went on. Hitting the spacebar again, Mycroft paused the video, drawing his attention to the screen, which was of his younger brother's head now forward in mid-cough.

"Doctor Watson, it seems we have a problem," he spoke calmly, looking back to him.

"Are you just figuring that out?" His eyes darted to the screen. "So you do know what's happened, then. Can I ask what you're doing about it?" his tone was strict, which Mycroft either failed to pick up on or decided to ignore.

"We've tried to track the video, but it appears they've encrypted and bounced the originating IP address through a relay of virtual circuits. Most likely using the same program they did to send the route information to the members in the UK."

John knitted his eyebrows in confusion. "They?" Mycroft looked at him, as though not understanding what John failed to comprehend. "Who are "they"?"

"Ah, right," the eldest Holmes said with a nonchalant expression. Moving back to the laptop, he switched to a tab that he must have had loaded before John's arrival. A bolded headline came up reading _Rumours Circulate: Cielo Diablos Moves Traffic Overseas_. "Cielo Diablos, originating in Mexico, moved to the US and now they've managed to move operations to the UK. We got intel from overseas that they had planned to open several rings here," he went on as John crossed the room to skim the article. "We managed to shutdown two of their operations, one which they had based out of Wales. One of the men we brought in said they had planned to set one in London, which we've been trying to locate for weeks."

Pictures of dismembered bodies filled the screen as John scrolled down, reading the methods of torture and mutilations the cartel was apparently known for. "Jesus," was the only thing he could get out as he ran his hand through his hair, staring at the various photos.

"It's not uncommon for them to go after family members of people they believe get too close; rather, it's one of the things they're known for," he trailed off, seeming to focus on anything that was not John Watson's look of horror.

The physical change in him was apparent, evidenced by his ever-creasing brow line and dangerously still hands. "And why didn't you ask for Sherlock's help?" John's voice was starting to rise, his anxiety and frustration coming to the surface as he managed to look away from the photos and pull his attention back to Mycroft.

"I didn't want him involved," Mycroft said firmly, irritably, his composure beginning to falter. "This isn't one person with a few political ties here and there that wouldn't pose him or us much of a threat. This group works underground, and they do whatever needs to be done to keep it that way. Going up against military or government is what they train to do; taking out partners, family members, anyone they need to get what they want."

The look of incredulity on John's face was one that could not be ignored.

"And you didn't think that maybe, _just maybe_ , your brother should've been made aware that his life was possibly in danger?"

"I had maximum security surveillance on him—"

"That worked out great, clearly."

They held eye contact. John's eyes were wide, his brow furrowed in a mixture of anger, fear and frustration, his jaw taut. Seeing a hint of the latter two emotions reflected on Mycroft's features, John released a breath and broke his gaze away, beginning to pace around the flat.

His mind raced with possibilities on how to find his best mate, but with no leads, he could not think properly on where to start. The feel of Mycroft's eyes watching him was making him crosser and he found himself wanting to slam his fist against the eldest Holmes' face. If Mycroft would have at least told _him_ about an impending threat, he would have been on guard of any suspicious activities or persons.

"If they know they have my attention, they will do worse to him," Mycroft's voice invaded his thoughts, having him turn to look at him.

"So you'll just stand back and do nothing, then?" When Mycroft did not respond, John nodded his head, releasing a fast exhale through his nose as he turned his back to him, pacing towards the door.

"They will kill him, John," Mycroft said, a hint of desperation flirting with his tone. "Whether they get what they want or not, they will kill him." The typical façade Mycroft usually held onto broke at the realization he had already known.

At the information, John suddenly turned back around and walked up to him, staring up at the taller man with an oddly composed rage. "Then what do you think is better, hm? Sherlock dies honestly believing his brother doesn't give a damn about him? Or dies knowing that you tried anything and everything in your power to bring him home? Now you tell me: what would you rather have him think?"

It was clear of Mycroft's internal conflict, despite his expression barely changing.

With the air tense, Mycroft came out with, "I can't lose him, John. It would destroy me."

John nodded while still holding eye contact. "Then we'll bring him home together," he said slowly with assent. There was a silent affirmation. John's eyes quickly went back to the laptop, a question tugging at the corner of his mind. "If you had him under surveillance, then how did you lose track of him?"

The older man inhaled, shifting as he put his hands in his pockets.

"We lost the van near Cavendish Square. They managed to hack into the traffic cameras, putting them on loop. We were unaware of the breach until then." Admitting that they were ignorant to a crack in their own system did not appear to come easy to the man Sherlock had once referred to as "being the British government."

John furrowed his brow as his gaze followed Mycroft, who walked to peer out of the window. "How could they do that exactly?"

"It's not difficult, Doctor Watson. With the right equipment, even an amateur can do it." He failed to see the frown he received as a response.

More questions swarmed around his head and John was trying to focus on the one that was the most important; however, given the situation, they all were of equal importance to him.

How could they find him?

Where could they start?

How would Sherlock's situation be once they found him?

Or if they didn't?

He knew the young genius could withstand more physical pain that most capable people – hell, he had seen his fellow soldiers crack under circumstances he knew Sherlock would handle with ease. Even with this knowledge, he knew Sherlock had his breaking points. As much as the young man always claimed to favour logic over emotion, he was more emotional than even he would ever be willing to admit. Given enough stressors, he would crack. John could only hope they would find him before that point would be reached.

Then again, if anyone could hold out, it would be the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

The sound of ringing sounded about the flat.

John looked at Mycroft, who took his mobile from his pocket.

"What have you found?" he asked the moment his phone was to his ear. A moment's pause was followed with, "Quite right. In twenty." There was an audible _beep_ as the call ended and he returned his phone to his pocket. "Seems the van has been located," he responded to John's unasked question. "You will be accompanying me, I assume." He passed John to the flat's door, but not before he took up his umbrella, which had been leaning against the back of the chair his younger brother typically occupied.

There was no hesitation as John followed after him.

* * *

The legs of the chair scraped against the floor, digging scratches across the concrete. With each movement, the banging echoed around the room. Given enough time, the noise would undoubtedly be investigated, and given the actions that transpired the last time more than one person occupied the room, the young detective was attempting to make haste.

Behind the leg of the chair lay a metal pin – one the masked mad was unaware had fallen from his pockets during his time subduing a struggling genius.

Sherlock was trying to drop the chair sideways to reach it, but the way both he and it were shackled was not allowing for much leeway. With one final rock, he hit the floor, his shoulder making hard contact, radiating a shock of pain down his arm and side. It was quickly ignored and he jerked to move the chair and get his hand close enough to the pin. His fingers traced what he could not see and he started to shift backwards, closer to where he knew the pin had fallen.

After several attempts, he finally felt the thin piece of metal and was able to grip it between the tips of his index and middle fingers. He had to go by feel as he made the ninety-degree bend at the tip of the pin before feeling for the keyhole to the shackle. Once he found it and inserted it at the top of the hole, he had to fenagle with it for a bit before he heard it click. Pushing his wrist outwards, he freed his right hand before passing the pin and starting on the left. Right as he had it positioned inside the keyhole, the sound of footsteps came from the hall beyond the door.

He quickly positioned his right wrist back into the shackle without locking it back into place and slipped the pin into the cuff of his shirt. He set his head on the ground.

"Wha' tha 'ell are ya doin'?" There was an odd air of relief at it not being the voice of the man from early that morning – the voice a thick cockney.

"Figured I'd lie down, rest a bit." He saw the outline of the person from his peripheral. The man was short and stout, face sunken in from apparent years of drug use. Unlike the man from earlier, his clothes were not worn from choice, but necessity – most likely someone lower on the totem pole, given the menial tasks that those in higher ranks felt did not require their attention. The way he carried himself hinted that he was not much of a threat if something were to arise.

The back of the chair was grabbed and Sherlock was pulled from the floor, the chair returning to its original sitting position. Subconsciously, Sherlock tensed when the man leaned down in front of him, placing his hands on Sherlock's upper thighs, dangerously close to his groin. "Ya really do 'ave a pretty mouth," he said, his lips twitching to show yellowing teeth. "Mind if I use it?"

"Rather you didn't," came the response, his eyes quickly darting down to a bulge in the man's jeans.

"An' give up a shot a' tha real Sherlock Holmes? I've been wantin' ta do this for a long time." He ran his hands up further, before he leaned in further to try to press his mouth against the young genius'. Sherlock pulled his head away, leaving the man to make contact with the side of his mouth. His breath smelled acidic, as though the man had gone several days without sustenance, instead only relying on whatever drugs to fuel him.

When his hands finally found their way to Sherlock's groin, there was a click.

With a hard swing, the knuckles on Sherlock's right hand made contact with the man's temple, sending the stout man crumpling to the floor. Sherlock shook his hand, the hit causing a slight pain down his wrist. He stared at the now-unconscious man as he started reworking the pin against the left shackle.

"Apologies, but you're not quite my type."

The left shackle clicked, freeing his other hand.

It only took him another minute to free himself from the restraints around his ankles.

Once unfettered, he crouched to search the man, only to find him unbothered by a weapon. A frown befell his face, but he quickly shook it off, taking the only chance he may have to escape the enclosure.

Ensuring that no one was in the hall, Sherlock made his way down, ears on alert for any sound that he himself did not make. When the low light from the room could no longer penetrate through the hall, Sherlock was left in complete darkness, leaving his fingers to trace along the wall. It was not long until his foot hit a block, causing him to hiss at the pain that radiated through from his toe to his heel.

A cold metal met his forefoot, along with the honeycomb pattern of a grate, as he stepped up. After a few curved steps, light emanated from somewhere near the top, reflecting off a grey wall. He stopped, listening for a hint of life. Hearing nothing, he lifted his foot to the next step.

A sharp pain shot through his left foot and he stumbled forward.

Trying to catch himself, both of his hands were sliced on shards of glass.

An unwanted yell escaped his throat as he retracted them close to his body, a shard sticking itself into his left palm. To make up for the sudden shift, his right foot tried to gain traction, only to be met with more glass. He rolled onto his back, his right hand shaking as he went to pull the shard from his left. Though not being able to see, he could feel the trail of blood pour from his hand and down his wrist.

He jerked his attention when he heard boots crunching on glass from the top of the stairs.

Using his elbows and forearms, he turned back to his stomach, facing the sound as he attempted to move back down, ignoring the glass that dug into his bare feet and forearms.

A shadow blocked out the small sliver of light as it descended the stairs before coming to a halt.

"Oh, Sherlock," was a familiar voice. "I've gotta give you props for the attempt, but a zero for the landing."

Sherlock attempted to stand, but it was forewent as a kick to his chest caused him to fall backwards down the steps. He hit the wall at a bend, groaning at the fresh bruises forming and small shards of glass sticking into exposed areas of skin. He moved backwards down the stairs as the shadowy figure made its descent, finally hitting the flat ground at the end. Despite his injured and bleeding feet, he stood up, stumbling down the hall and back to the room he had been held in.

Once in the room, he moved to the chair, picking it up from its original position and moving back to the doorframe, ignoring his sliced hands. When the man stepped into the doorway, Sherlock swung the chair as hard as he could.

It broke upon impact, sending splintering wood in every which direction.

His air of relief quickly diminished when the man walked into the room. He swung at him, aiming for his temple, only for his hand to be grabbed and twisted until there was a faint _snap_. Reflex had him try to pull his hand close, but given that the man did not release his grip, Sherlock found himself staring into the dark eyes of his captor. Before he could attempt another strike, a sharp pain shot through his knee as the man kicked his knee in, forcing it to bend the opposite direction. With a cry of distress, he hit the floor, his kneecap now bulging beneath the skin.

The man stepped over him as he cradled his injuries, moving to his incapacitated ally.

He crouched down and began smacking him across the face.

"Get your ass up, you worthless piece of shit," he said as he smacked him again, this time hard enough to leave a red handprint. As the man stirred, the other grabbed his shirt, pulling him up from the floor. "I give you want you want served on a silver platter and you still manage to fuck it up." He pushed him back to floor when a mumbled "sorry" escaped the other's throat, and stood up, turning to Sherlock, who was crawling towards the broken pieces of the chair. "So sorry about him. He's new."

There was a buzz emanating from the man's pocket. He took out his mobile and unlocked the screen, his fingers tapping away. As he sent the message, he walked to Sherlock and dug his heel into the back of the detective's injured knee, garnering a shout as Sherlock was less than a foot from the broken chair's leg.

"Why the hurry? I've yet to hear from your brother, so we've got so much more time together."

"The world would end before then, so we should cut this short," Sherlock said, getting his mind right to block out the pain.

There was a pause of contemplation. "Do you think so little of him?"

"No," was the immediate response. "I think that highly of him."

For once, the man had no reply, instead giving a mocked sympathetic expression. "You know, I figured Mycroft had some fucked up relationships, but that? That's just sad."

Both of their attentions were drawn to heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

Two men entered the room, one donning brown cargo pants and black tank-top, the other in dark-washed jeans and white button-up. Unlike the people Sherlock had been introduced to, neither of them had track marks on their arms, nor were their eyes reflecting any form of drug use. The way they carried themselves, for the first time, had Sherlock feel threatened. There was the speculation that it was not they who listened to the man Sherlock had first met, but had most likely received orders from higher up – perhaps even the runner of whatever group Mycroft had managed to gain the attention of.

That notion had him go on full guard.

"You weren't supposed to immobilize him," the one in the black tank-top said, his accent proper, as the other moved to grab Sherlock by his neck and shoulders, hoisting him to his feet.

"Hey, don't blame me," the other shot back. "This dumb fuck's the reason he got out in the first place," he said, motioning to the man Sherlock had struck in the temple.

Black tank-top-man's eyes darted to the man whose face became fear-stricken. His jaw clenched, an anger seeming to build. "Honestly?!" he shouted, causing the cockney-accented man to flinch before falling into apologies. The man clenched his fists and shut his eyes, as though trying to calm himself. "I told him not to bring you on, but he didn't want to listen." He reached behind him into the waistband of his pants, brandishing a para .42.

The sound of a gunshot echoed throughout the room.

The body of the lower-class man hit the floor, his eyes opened as a bullet wound leaked blood from his skull.

"Oi, where do you want him?" the man who held Sherlock asked as the genius was trying and failing at getting free.

The other clicked his tongue before pulling his attention back to the American. "Have you heard from Mycroft Holmes, yet?"

He shook his head, shrugging. "Nope. Don't even know if he saw our video, to be honest."

"Oh, I'm sure he did. Someone that high up? If he doesn't know when his brother wanks off, I'd be surprised." He released a breath, his eyes trailing to Sherlock. "We're moving a bit ahead of schedule, but so be it." He walked up to Sherlock, his expression unreadable when he ran his hand through Sherlock's hair and down his cheek. "My men are gonna love you, Mr. Holmes. You're already the topic of conversation."

"I'm flattered," Sherlock spoke nonchalantly, despite his heart skipping a beat. "But I do have matters to attend to – more important than those of your _men_ , I'm sure."

The man smiled, his expression dark. "I've read your blog – the way you and your boyfriend meander about London solving crimes. Well let me give you a good old-fashioned mystery, Sherlock Holmes." He brought his face close to the detective's. "London's most famous detective goes missing; his lover and government brother try to find him, but they don't realize the harder they try, the more the detective suffers. All it would take to end it is the detective's important brother to drop his own investigation. Now I ask you, Mr. Holmes: how would this mystery end in the mind of the famous detective?"

Sherlock inhaled, meeting the man's eyes.

He went through the various outcomes, each leading to the same ending, which failed to end in his favour.

"The detective dies, even if his "important brother" were to stop his own investigation."

At the answer, the man smiled. "Now wouldn't it be best if the detective got his worth?" Sherlock fell silent while maintaining eye contact, not wanting to believe the logic that ran through his mind on what was to come. The man smiled. "Take him to the back," he ordered, referring to the bloody mattress butted against the pipes in the back. "It's time to have some fun."

* * *

Uh...heh? (^ ^)  
Like I said, this is gonna get dark.

I keep saying that because I've had so many people stop reading my fics because of how dark they get.

Please let me know what you think and how it's going!


	4. Mouth of Madness

I would like to take this time to formally apologize to the BBC's fictional characterization of Sherlock Holmes. From here on out, this story gets dark - and not just standard dark, but things that aren't for people who are easily squeamish.

 **sarahlucylu** , DON'T LEAVE ME! (v) People drop out, but I really hope you'll stick it out. (^ ^*) It'll be worth it in the long run!

* * *

 **4**

 **Mouth of Madness**

There was the sound of metal against metal.

The chain that had once connected the shackles to the d-rings on the floor around the chair was now connected to the L-shaped bend of the pipes near the mattress, which was roughly three-feet from the floor. On the opposite end of the chain was Sherlock, who was facing the pipes with his hands restrained behind his back, keeping his upper body from the mattress and arms twisted at an odd angle as his knees dug into broken springs. The way he was chained, if he dropped his body, both shoulders would dislocate, forcing him to hold tension. The dislocated knee was bent awkwardly, causing a shooting pain any time he shifted even slightly or any form of pressure was placed upon it; but it was a pain he could easily block out.

Behind him, the American was setting up a camera on a tripod, the same camera utilized during the prior waterboarding. The body of the man who had been shot was still in the room, left on the floor where his body had made a thud of finality. A pool of blood was around his head on the floor, the blood having already coagulated around the hole in his forehead.

A buzz emanated from the American's pocket and Sherlock could hear the man's fingers make contact with the screen as he responded to whatever text he had received. After a sigh, he went back to messing with the camera.

"It's so hard to find good help these days," he said, though he sounded as though he was talking to himself. "Think you could recommend a reliable plumber, Sherlock? Don't know who I can trust in my apartment in the damned city."

The phrasing had Sherlock file the information away.

He was still within the limits of City of Westminster.

Where was left to be determined.

"Charnock Plumbing is decent from what I've heard," Sherlock said, to which the man made a verbal acknowledgement. "A bit expensive, but I doubt that'd be much of a problem. All Trades London is a bit cheaper, if you'd rather."

Though he did not see it, the man smiled.

"Thank you. I really do appreciate that."

"Well, given the crime rate in London these days, I completely understand distrust towards strangers." The man chuckled as Sherlock shifted, causing the chain to clink.

"You know, I really do like you, Sherlock Holmes. Which is more than I can say for most people we've had visit." He released an airy breath. "I may actually feel remorse later on down the road."

"We can't have that, now can we?"

"Well, most people are horrible conversationalists. They tend to scream and cry too much, and that just annoys me. But you," he walked over to Sherlock and crouched down to hold his chin and have him look up, the detective's expression ever unchanging. "You're collected – calm. Under different circumstances, you'd probably be my type."

Sherlock sneered. "If only," his voice was filled with sarcasm, to which the American laughed.

Without any prompting, the man brought their mouths together; reactionary response had Sherlock clenching his jaw. The American spent a few moments trying to get Sherlock to open his mouth, which he had to force by pressing his fingers into Sherlock's cheeks. The moment there was slack, he sucked the genius's tongue between his teeth before biting down, garnering a muffled shout as Sherlock's tongue retracted from reflex. The man pulled back, grinning as he licked Sherlock's blood from his own lip.

"How about we have some personal time before everyone else joins in?" He ran his hand through Sherlock's hair and stood up. He unbuckled his belt and undid the button and zipper to his jeans. Sherlock adverted his gaze to staring back down at the mattress, his jaw tightening. It was only a moment before his hair was gripped and he was forced to turn his head towards the length now staring him in the face. "C'mon, show me what else that mouth can do," his voice came out slow, nearly in a moan as he rubbed the head on Sherlock's lips. "And don't bite. It wouldn't end well for either of us."

Going against his better judgement, Sherlock found himself parting his lips, giving the man entry. The moment it pressed against his uvula, he gagged, causing the man to extract himself as Sherlock fell into a round of coughing and gagging. Once he inhaled a full breath, his head was grabbed and he was forced to take the man's length once again. This time, when his uvula was passed, the man held Sherlock's head still, groaning as the detective's throat closed around him, choking. He pulled back, before driving his knob into the back of the detective's throat.

He moaned with each thrust, groaning in particular whenever Sherlock gagged.

"Oh, you're amazing, Sherlock," he moaned as he held Sherlock's head in place, thrusting in and out.

Anytime Sherlock would cough or gag, the man would release a low-pitted moan, but would give no reprieve, instead holding the position longer. It did not take long before the thrusts got harder and faster, hitting the back of the young genius's throat. Despite attempting to pull away, he was held firmly in place as the man released his seed into his throat and mouth, releasing a loud grunt as he did.

Sherlock's reaction was to pull his head away, but it was merely a failed attempt. "Swallow it," the voice came out in a raspy command as fingers trailed through his hair. With the motion he was able, Sherlock's head jarred, his breath releasing from his nasal passages. "Oh, Sherlock…it wasn't a request." His nose was pinched shut while the man grabbed the back of his head and forced his length down his throat. Sherlock could only refrain for so long before his throat contracted and he swallowed, the bitter aftertaste left on the back of his tongue.

When the man retracted himself, some of his liquid followed, leaving a trail down Sherlock's chin. Sherlock tried to wipe it on his shirt, but even with his chin lowered, he could not reach to his shoulder. His hair was grabbed and, once more, a flash went off in his face.

His head was dropped and he heard the tapping as the man began another text message, along with the sound of a zipper as the man tucked himself back into his designer jeans.

Despite knowing what happened was unavoidable, Sherlock's subconscious was understanding disgust – not just with the man, but himself. Rationalization took over, but the back of his mind refused to silence itself. He shut his eyes, drawing his attention to anything but the current situation. He began visualizing everything leading up to his position – from John convincing him to go to dinner, leaving the flat, the man on his mobile, the red-haired fan – all to waking up and seeing the residue on the man's boots.

Wait.

The dirt on his boots had been wet at one point, meaning he was in a location with mud. Given that it had not rained in the last few days, and that the man clearly took care in his appearance, logic concluded he was near water.

Near water.

Still in the City of Westminster.

Enclosed structure.

He was by the river.

Most likely one of the abandoned buildings along the south end or a possible port, though the latter seemed unlikely given everyone's carefree demeanour.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps coming from the hallway as Sherlock heard three sets of boots enter through the door from the hall. One of the strides he recognized as the man who wore the black tank-top. He subconsciously tensed, his spine going straight. The American had already returned to his position behind the camera, acting as though nothing had occurred. Sherlock could hear the man tapping away on the screen to his mobile, but, much the same, tried to not react to the newcomers.

"Took y'all long enough," the American spoke casually without looking up from his phone.

There was a scoff, followed by close steps and a hand on Sherlock's left buttock. Through his slacks, fingers ran from the bass of his scrotum to his rectum, making his body tense against his will. It was followed up with the band of his pants being gripped before a hand slipped into the band, where the flesh of fingertips began running down his buttocks to his entrance. An unwillingly grunt escaped him as an index finger pressed against him before crossing his boundary. He attempted to block the foreign sensation, yet his body clenched against his will, squeezing the man's finger.

A whimper escaped when another digit entered, which he muffled by biting the inside of his mouth.

"He's tight," the voice of the black-tank-topped man came out. "Hope Mycroft's always wanted to see you railed, Sherlock," he said, a low laugh escaping his throat. "Dreln, get a close-up on his arse – I want Mycroft to see every inch of his little brother."

The American laughed as the other man gripped the band of Sherlock's trousers and pulled, ripping the seam and exposing the young genius's behind.

His bare flesh suddenly exposed to the cold air of the room had chill bumps form on his skin, and he found himself tugging at the chains, which only garnered a sharp pain down his back. When his buttocks were spread, his brain began trying to find anything else to focus on. It decided focusing on the previous night was the best situation.

While John was gone for the day, he had continually searched for something to do – something to solve within the city. An older lady had come to the flat, requesting his help about her husband, who she said would disappear in the middle of the night while he thought she was asleep. The obvious answer of an affair had not sat well with her and she called him several obscenities before storming out, not even bothering to close the door as her heels pounded down the stairs. Afterwards, he had gone back to scouring the papers, occasionally asking John if he had anything, despite the soldier being no where near the flat. When nothing came up, he had gone back to reading, managing several books before John returned that evening.

His thoughts were interrupted as a hand hit hard across his rear, followed by a hissing sound as two thumbs pressed into him.

His body tensed from reflex.

An unwilling grunt fell from his throat as his hole was spread, albeit small.

"I need something, then," came an unfamiliar voice to a prior statement Sherlock had not been paying attention.

"You've got spit, don't you?" was the sarcastic response of the American.

There was an audible growl.

There was only a moment's pause before two fingers were inserted, the dryness causing friction and skin skipping on skin as the pressed in further. Once both of the man's fingers were completely inside him, he began making a scissor-like motion, gaining muffled grunts and from the detective. He felt something wet at his entrance as the man allowed his saliva to drip at the base of his fingers. He had only coated the entrance before extracting his fingers.

Sherlock tried to prepare himself for what was coming next.

Tried to get his mind right.

To focus on something – _anything_.

But it was foregone as he felt the tip of the man's prick against his rectal cavity, pressing in slowly. After the sound of the man spitting, the man pushed into him, groaning as he did. Despite knowing tensing would only make it hurt, his sphincter contracted against his will, causing him to release a low cry.

"Gods, he's tight," the man said as he pulled out and pushed back in, getting the same response. "Feels so good," his voice came out in a moan.

Sherlock's mind travelled, his spine tingling.

He found himself in Mycroft's office, his older brother sitting behind his desk as his eyes traced along the papers in a folder. Sherlock looked around the room, moving from the two metal chairs in front of the desk to the portrait of Queen Elizabeth II on the wall.

"All this going on and you come to see me?" Mycroft asked, closing the folder as he drew his gaze to Sherlock. Sherlock knitted his brows in curiosity. "Brother Mine, what could you possibly hope for me to tell you that you don't already know?" Sherlock cocked his head, his expression unchanging. "Are you wanting me to tell you everything will be all right? You and I both know how that will go."

"Mycroft…I'm…scared," Sherlock came out with, his face overwrought with confusion.

Even as the words escaped him, he failed to understand them.

The last time he recalled being scared, he was under the influence of a drug on Dartmoor in Devon. Prior to that was when while he was still with his parents, Mycroft had returned home from University and his brother had—

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke in a sigh. "Pretend it's someone you love. It will help."

The younger genius felt his eyes begin to burn as his head shook.

An electric jolt shot down his lower spine as an unwanted shout was released from his vocal chords.

The man had switched angles, pounding inside him at an awkward position, feeling as though it was ramming into the side of his wall. It was not long before the man released a grunt, spilling his seed into Sherlock. He performed a few more thrusts, pumping the white liquid inside him before retracting himself.

Feeling the semen seep out of him, vomit rose in Sherlock's throat. He swallowed it down, keeping his eyes shut as he attempted to return the palace he had called comfort.

Even with his eyelids shut, he could see the flash of the American's phone shine on the wall.

* * *

As much as I love Sherlock, you'd never guess by the stuff I put him through.

Please review with your thoughts! (^ ^)


	5. The Little Martyr

I swear I'm remembering to upload this here.  
I SWEAR. Just been going through a lot of crap in my personal-life and keep neglecting it.

sarahlucylu, kick their butts. KICK THEM SO HARD.

Guest, Happy endings are debatable...especially for something like this..Granted, happy is relative. Ha ha~

* * *

 **5**

 **The Little Martyr**

The van was sitting on the southern bank of the River Thames by the time John had arrived alongside Mycroft. The van's interior was waterlogged and several scenes of crime officers were scouring the taped-off scene, taking photographs and trying to recover what they could from the damaged vehicle.

Lestrade was in the midst of speaking to one of the crime scene officers, going over what evidence that had been destroyed and the bit that was recovered. The longer the conversation went on, the more the detective inspector's apprehension grew, his brow line ever creasing. When another SOCO approached them with another recovery, Lestrade stared at him, his expression unreadable as he nodded. As the two crime scene officers went over their finds, Lestrade excused himself.

Seeing John, he made his way over. When his gaze trailed to Mycroft, who stood a few feet away with his attention on the van, he unconsciously tensed, something even John picked up on, to which he glanced between the two before focusing solely on the inspector.

"What have they found?" Mycroft asked, not bothering to look at the man he spoke to.

Lestrade released a breath. "We found the owner of the van – belonged to an Agatha Delaney…who reported the van stolen a week ago." The look from John was of concern, while Mycroft's was that of disinterest. "They—"

"No," Mycroft cut him off. " _What have they found?_ " he reiterated, brows raised as he finally turned to Lestrade.

Having made eye contact, the inspector shifted uneasily.

"Sherlock's mobile," he responded, forcing himself to not break eye contact. His attempt failed when the other's expression was unchanging. "Also his coat and scarf…socks and shoes." The information had John shut his eyes as he shook his head, while Mycroft seemed to stand straighter, if at all possible.

Without saying a word, Mycroft began walking towards the van, which was still being photographed by a crime scene photographer.

Lestrade turned to John, who had also appeared to relax somewhat out of the eldest Holmes' presence. "Have you gotten word?" he asked, to which John's shoulders dropped as he shook his head. "Least that explains why the cavalry arrived so fast," he commented in regard to the eldest Holmes, garnering a small snicker.

"Why would they drive the van into the river, instead of burning it?" John mused, watching Mycroft talk to the photographer. Come to think of it, while he was unaware of names, he had grown familiar with the faces of several crime scene analysts that worked for Scotland Yard and, as he was looking around, came to realize most of the officers did not have that air of familiarity.

"Would've drawn too much attention, most likely," was the response. "Now, unless they had another mode of transportation, it's unlikely they would have drowned the van and carried a fully-grown man to wherever they're situated."

"Meaning we're looking for evidence of a secondary vehicle?" Lestrade confirmed with an audible noise. "Have they found another set of marks, then?"

Lestrade sighed, his hands going to his hips as he looked around the scene. "That's where we're having an issue. There's one set of tyre marks going into the water, no shoeprints anywhere leaving or arriving. Chances are they put the van in drive, used something to weigh on the treadle and let it roll into the river."

At the notion that there was nothing to go off, the spirits between them were dropping.

It had been over twelve hours since Sherlock had been abducted and, while the only video was of him being waterboarded, the chances of that having been the only thing they had put Sherlock through did not favour well. After having read what the cartel was known for, and been told more by Mycroft while they were en route to the scene, John's mind flipped over itself on scenarios his mate had most likely already been subjected to. It had him wondering if Lestrade had been made aware of the group's involvement.

When Mycroft returned to them, he was holding a plastic bag with Sherlock's mobile phone. Seeing it, Lestrade held up his hand, his expression becoming serious, albeit somewhat frantic.

"Are you attempting to take evidence from a crime scene?" his demeanour was strict, something that came as a surprise.

Mycroft raised his brows. "Unless you have a manner of extracting information from a sodden mobile, then yes."

Lestrade's jaw became taut. "You are not taking anything from my crime scene. I don't care if you work for the government or if you're related to Sherlock Holmes. My scene, my rules." Though it went unnoticed, John's eyes had gone wide at seeing someone speak to Mycroft, other than Sherlock, with such a directive and he managed to act interested in something other than the conversation. "We have the best tech analysts at Scotland Yard, and if anything can be recovered from that phone, we have the people who can do it."

He held out his hand as both he and Mycroft locked gazes, as though challenging each other.

Though it was only a few seconds, the air about made it seem minutes.

Finally, Mycroft placed the sealed bag in Lestrade's open palm; yet, before he released it, said, "If further damage is done, destroying any information that may still be salvageable, I can't promise London will still be under your ever-watchful eye," he finished with a calm mien.

When Lestrade nodded, it seemed to be the reassurance Mycroft was searching for and he released his grip.

The detective inspector put the bagged evidence in the inside pocket of his jacket.

The awkward air was broken by both Lestrade's and Mycroft's mobiles going off at the same time. While Mycroft's was in the form of a call, which he stepped away to take, Lestrade's was received as a text message. Watching them, John saw Lestrade's features drop before Mycroft's, though the detective inspector's was much more readable.

Lestrade attracted his attention to John, whose expression was filled with curiosity.

"They uploaded a new video," Lestrade said, his vocals filled with dread as his brows went up.

It appeared that Mycroft was given more information, whereas his shoulders had dropped when he approached them, despite his features reflecting indifference.

"Facial recognition picked up this man," Mycroft said as he showed Lestrade and John a mugshot of the American from the video on his mobile. "Dreln Mathias Hargett: born in Houston, Texas and arrested for simple possession of narcotics throughout his adolescence. Was given to foster care at the age of thirteen, when he became involved with Cielo Diablos as a falcon before rising to their version of a lieutenant. Despite being on the Federal Bureau of Investigation's watchlist in the United States, he managed to obtain a passport to leave the country."

Lestrade furrowed his brows.

"How did our security administration not pick him up when he entered the UK?"

"A falsified passport, using the identity of a Christopher Matthews, who was pronounced dead due to an overdose on cocaine two years prior." Lestrade rolled his eyes in aggravation, while John pursed his lips, body tensing. Inhaling, Mycroft pocketed his phone before standing straight. "I do believe a new video has been uploaded to SKS. Perhaps we can gain further insight of Sherlock's location."

With that, he left their presence, walking towards the black vehicle awaiting his return.

* * *

Pants and grunts filled the room, along with the sound of skin slapping skin, tapping and conversation.

Sherlock's headspace focused in and out, the mounting pressure in his lower stomach being the only thing that would continually drag him back to reality. He had attempted to take his mind's advice, but was finding a face to be difficult. At one point, he had imagined the person by his rear to be Mycroft, which took him several attempts to banish before guilt set in that he had imagined his brother at all. John was next, which somehow did make everything a bit more tolerable, even if his mind was in constant dispute.

The conversation that was about in the room had bounced around several times, from Sherlock's current position to what the group was hoping to gain having Mycroft's "younger brother" in their possession. Other conversation followed to the import of products and the distribution, which Sherlock had made sure to lock into his memory.

The feeling of warm liquid inside him cut his thoughts short.

His body released a noise as the excess liquid left him, making the feeling of disgust worsen.

"Damn, Sherlock," came the voice of the American – Dreln – followed by a laugh. "How do you think Mycroft'll feel seeing his little brother so loose?" Sherlock felt a finger enter his rectum, followed by two more digits. "Fuck…I could probably fit my whole hand in there." The comment was met by a fourth finger, making Sherlock tense. When a thumb entered him, Dreln followed up with, "I'd love to stick my dick in there, but I don't fuck whores – might catch something."

He twisted all five fingers, trying to push his hand inside, each time garnering a painful grunt from the young detective. After a few attempts, his knuckles finally passed Sherlock's ring, and Sherlock released an unwilling shout of pain. His muscle contacted around the foreign object, which was met with a further intrusion as the American pushed in until his wrist met the base of Sherlock's anus.

His breath hitched in his throat and a low-pitted whine escaped him.

His muscle throbbed against the man's hand, a dull pain radiating from his rectum and through his lower back. So when Dreln began pumping his hand in and out, it took all of Sherlock's self-control to not collapse in a mixture of pained cries and moans, if only to keep his shoulders from dislocating.

"C'mon, Sherlock," the man said as he wrapped his free arm around Sherlock's hips as he leaned close to his ear. "Scream for me," he whispered as he pushed in further. Sherlock's face contorted in pain, veins straining against his neck as he willed everything in his being to refrain from releasing the build-up in his throat. When he failed to get what he wanted, the American began hastily pumping his hand in-and-out.

Body betraying him, Sherlock dropped forward and his arms were twisted up, followed by the sound of a crack as his right shoulder came out of its socket. His vocals were next to follow suit and he began releasing a mixture of shouts and groans. The pressure that had been mounting in his lower abdomen had turned into a sharp pain with each motion. He tried to tune it out, tried to return the place within his mind, but was void when Dreln started twisting his hand inside him, forcing hand and wrist further.

"Holy shit," the man laughed, going faster. "I wonder if I get to my elbow?"

"Well, don't destroy him," interjected another voice, heavy with an Irish accent, as Dreln's hand began feeling as though it was trying to knock its way to Sherlock's sigmoid colon. "Don't want to feel like fuckin' a sandbag."

A scoff left the American's throat. "Please. With your needle-dick, I'm sure that feeling's frequent."

There was the sound of something being hit before the echoing of laughter.

"You wanna put your hand in this bitch, too?" Dreln asked as his forced part of his arm in, garnering a shout from the young detective.

"Oh, there's a lot o' things I'd love to stick in that arse, but my hand ain't one."

"Well, while you're contemplating, zoom in on this," he said as he managed to push in half of his forearm, gaining a gasp and yell as a response. "Fuck…I don't think I can fit anymore. Feel like the circulation's being cut off from my arm."

He pulled his arm back and out, Sherlock's body making a popping sound as the foreign object was extracted. With his upper body on the mattress and his buttocks in the air, Sherlock buried his face into the dirty mattress, hoping he could escape back to his haven. Pain continued to shoot down his right shoulder through his back, while his rectum and abdomen throbbed. With his vision hidden in the darkness, he failed to see the flash of a mobile phone. Shortly after, his hair was grabbed and he was forced to lift his head from the mattress.

Without hesitation, the American's free hand ran down his cheek and jaw, before his fingers entered his mouth.

"Like how you taste, Sherlock?" It was the smell that hit him before the taste. He gagged when his tongue was pressed down as fingers hit his uvula. His fingers were extracted and he ran his hand down Sherlock's face. "There," Dreln said as he stood up as the scent infected the genius' senses. "Now you can smell like the piece of shit you are."

Sherlock tried to pull himself back up, but his dislocated shoulder made it impossible and, instead, he was forced to rely on his left arm for support.

Finally given somewhat of a reprieve, he was able to regress into his mind.

Once again, he found himself in his brother's office.

However, Mycroft was strangely absent.

He looked around, but the office laid barren. Knitting his eyebrows together, he walked behind the desk, where a manila folder was closed. When he opened it, he was introduced to pictures of himself being violated by different people, each one having a close-up. As he flipped through the pictures, he shook his head before closing the folder. He shut his eyes, inhaling. The sound of footsteps from the entryway drew his attention and he pulled his head up, expression curious as the figure of his older brother crossed the threshold.

Upon Mycroft's entrance, Sherlock moved from behind the desk.

The expression on Mycroft's features had him confused and he found himself reaching behind him to touch the desk, as if to have a feeling of being grounded.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft said as he shook his head, eyes scanning his younger brother up and down. "Look what you've allowed to occur." His expression was that of disgust, causing Sherlock to look down, only to see the front of his shirt and trousers soaked with white liquid. "You've had all these men touch you, you can't possibly believe that none of it's a fault of your own, can you?"

"But it's not," Sherlock said, the disapproving look of his brother meeting his eyes. Sherlock quivered, his forehead creasing as his eyebrows rose. "Mycroft, none of this is a fault of my own."

Mycroft sighed and approached him, his eyes staring into his younger brother's. He brought his hand up, holding Sherlock's cheek. After a sympathetic look, he leaned down, giving the detective a small kiss on his forehead before pulling back, gazing into his eyes.

"Just like when we were younger," Mycroft said as he caressed his brother's cheek. "It will always be your fault."

At the mention, Sherlock found himself as a sixteen-year-old standing in front of a fully-grown Mycroft. With Mycroft's hand still on his cheek, Sherlock felt his eyes sting.

"That wasn't me," he said, voice shaking. "It was you."

At the response, Mycroft dropped his hand and walked passed him to his desk.

"Do you still believe that after all these years?" Mycroft asked, turning to face him as he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. The expression he gave was the of condescension. "If that were true, little brother, then why did you enjoy it?"

Sixteen-year-old Sherlock clamped his eyes shut and stepped backwards. He recalled his older brother's hand on his groin, his teeth on his neck, before running from the office and down the hall. He tripped on the multi-coloured tile, collapsing to all fours as his breath hitched in his throat and water met the floor.

* * *

It's going! I swear!


	6. Broken Genus

**6**  
 **Broken Genus**

The camera used in the video shook as it was taken off the tripod and moved closer to the semen dripping out of Sherlock's rear. His right cheek was gripped and spread, followed by the American's voice with, "Mycroft, if you want in on this, give me a call." The camera was turned, showing the face of the speaker, a smirk on his features. "You know how to find me."

The video ended with the American grinning at the camera.

Lestrade's eyes were enflamed, an incredulous look over him, while John's entire face was red, his fists clenched. A million emotions flooded through him, not one he dared vocalize, less he became uncontrollable. Rage built inside him as his eyes focused on the grinning face of the American, his mind running over every possible scenario that would lead him to both Sherlock and those in the video. The scenes he played were those even POWs would have found merciful.

Lestrade had made a few audible comments, which the blood pounding in John's ears drowned out. It was not until Lestrade's arm knocked into him as he reached to the laptop that John had paid any attention at all.

"Did you catch that?" Lestrade asked as he touched the pad on the laptop, scrolling the video back a bit.

All formality left him and John came out with, "You mean where they violated and ejaculated inside my best friend? Yes, I'm fairly certain I caught that," he snapped, his head jerking to the detective inspector, jaw clenching.

Lestrade held his hand up, cutting him short.

"No, listen."

He hit the spacebar to replay the final line:

" _You know how to find me._ "

He looked at John, furrowing his brow as he scrolled back to play it again. They met gazes as the speakers echoed:

" _You know how to find me_."

He did it one more time, their expressions mirrored each other.

The ire that had built up in the soldier during the video viewing had begun to redirect itself.

Even with all the information against the group, knowing what they were capable of and willing to do, Mycroft had seemed disinterested in assisting his own brother. Now realizing that Mycroft had a way to contact the group all along, and decided to stand-by as his own flesh and blood was subjected to such events, any respect that John had built for the eldest Holmes flickered out.

It made his absence from the police car that much more prevalent.

Before Lestrade could stop him, John had exited the car, steps in haste as he was off to find Mycroft. The detective inspector was after him after slamming the laptop close. He came up on John's heels right as the man approached the government official standing by the black vehicle they had arrived in.

"You've had their contact all along?" John's voice came out tight, a clear attempt at not shouting as Mycroft turned to face him, his phone at his ear.

Peering down at the soldier's taught expression, Mycroft spoke to the person on the other line: "Do excuse me. I have a matter to attend to." He brought the phone from his ear, ending whatever call he had taken. He pocketed his mobile before standing straight, looking at John as though he was an inconvenience. "Is there a problem, Doctor Watson?"

Inhaling in an attempt to compose himself, John came out with, "You've had the contact information of the group who took Sherlock all along?"

Mycroft stared at him, his eyebrows moving upwards. "Might I ask why you believe such absurdity?" The reaction in John was apparent. "Doctor Wat—"

"Have you had"—John cut him off—"their contact information?"

Mycroft inhaled, standing straight as he looked down at the shorter man. "Yes." The comment caused an apparent physical reaction in the doctor. Before John could garner a response, Mycroft fell out with, "I can assure you that Sherlock understands the situation for what it is." Lestrade had to grab John's upper arm to keep him from lunging at the government official. "Unlike those who my brother had chosen to surround himself with, he has the mental capacity to grasp the issue at hand and is more than capable of taking on whatever befalls him to ensure what needs to be done is done."

John managed to break free from the detective inspector.

In an instant, John had Mycroft by the collar of his suit jacket, pushing his back against the car.

"You agreed that we would bring him home," John's voice was low, every muscle tense as he refrained from what he had wanted.

"As you would put it, Doctor Watson, it's for the greater good."

Seeing Mycroft's indifferent expression, John had to fight every fibre of his being wishing to treat the eldest Holmes as he deemed fit.

"Sherlock Holmes is the "greatest good" that has ever happened to any one of us. If you're trying to tell me you'll let your own flesh and blood go through that and do _nothing_ "—he spat the last word—"then you might as well be with them."

With that said, he pushed off from Mycroft, staring at him and his apathetic countenance. Forgoing his instinct, he turned on his heel, footsteps heavy as he walked away.

Lestrade stared after him before turning his attention to Mycroft, whose expression was distant, despite wearing his usual mask. He inhaled, shaking his head on the exhale before following after John, failing to notice the flash of concern across the eldest Holmes' face.

* * *

A groan escaped Sherlock's mouth as his hair was pulled and more warm liquid filled him. His rectal cavity throbbed from the abuse, while nail marks and bite marks littered his lower and upper back. Even though he had made several attempts to escape reality while it was happening, he found his efforts failing. Each time he tried, he found himself in Mycroft's office, being guilt-tripped for what he logically knew was not of his own culpability.

At one point, John was there, shaking his head in disappointment. For reasons Sherlock knew naught, that had pained him much more than the brother he would never admit he looked to.

His head was dropped and it hit the mattress with a padded thud, forcing the pressure back to his dislocated shoulder. His rectum contracted as the liquid dripped down his perineum to his scrotum. The light of the American's mobile camera had become so frequent, he no longer grimaced at the photographs it took, so when the white flashed against the wall and piping, he paid it no heed, his eyes staring into nothingness at the wall to his left.

Though he refused to acknowledge it, he had become used to the abuse, almost to the point of tuning it out. Had it not have been for the occasional smack or the initial pain of penetration, he could have regressed to his Mind Palace indefinitely.

Something cold and wooden met his inner thigh and he found himself tensing as sharp points met the outside of his anus. At the thought of the object it entering him, which he came to realize was the broken leg of the chair he had shattered earlier, his breath caught and he shut his eyes. However, there was a momentary reprieve when a pair of footsteps approached.

"Care to give me a chance before getting my prick all splintered?" came the familiar voice of the Irishman, who Sherlock could have sworn left the room prior.

There was a snort from the American, who was clearly still by the camera and not the one holding the broken leg by his cavity.

"Finally decided to fist-fuck the bitch?"

There was the sound of laughter.

"Oh, by the Lord, no," came the comment with a chortle. "I just gotta take a piss."

There was the sound of shifting, followed up with, "Well, you got his mouth or his ass."

Finding himself waiting for the laughter signalling the witticism, Sherlock unconsciously tensed when it failed to ring throughout the basement. There was the sound of footsteps right before the mattress shifted.

There was a muffled groan as the Irishman inserted his partially flaccid length into Sherlock, whose body tensed. It took him a minute, but once he was fully in, he placed his left hand on Sherlock's back and grabbed his hip with the right. Another moment passed before warm liquid began filling him and, though he knew better, the detective tried to pull against the chain holding his wrists to the pipe. The moment he did, pain seared down his back and he stopped, shaking.

He tried to get his mind right, tried to focus on anything other than the humiliation, but his brain would not allow him. All he could focus on was the moment and the pressure mounting in his lower abdomen.

The few seconds felt like minutes before the man retracted himself, moaning in the pleasure of release.

Sherlock's jaw clenched as his face creased, his throat and eyes begging to release an unfamiliar emotion.

He saw the flash of the camera go off as the urine spilled out of him and he could no longer do it – could no longer hold himself together. His body shook, attempting to not vocalize the emotion he had suppressed for so long.

"Look at that: he does cry," came Dreln's voice next to his head.

The video camera was now in Dreln's hands, zooming in on Sherlock's reddened face.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? You think you'd be used to being a human toilet by now." The genius refused to open his eyes, not wanting to give the man any more satisfaction as his jaw trembled. "You know, I didn't want to say anything, but I'm starting to think you were right about your brother not giving a damn about you. I mean"—he shifted to move on the mattress, grabbing Sherlock's left buttock and exposing him further—"you think he'd respond to at least _one_ of these videos I've sent. Holy shit, it's still coming out. Ugh, that's gross." He inserted two of his fingers and pulled, stretching Sherlock and gaining a muffled shout as the a bit more trickled out. "Then again, maybe Mycroft's getting off on all this. Fucking faggot."

He extracted his fingers. Yet, before he pulled back, he smacked Sherlock's cheek and grabbed it, giving it a harsh squeeze and beginning the formation of a new bruise.

As his body pushed out the final bit of urine, Sherlock inhaled, a vocalised cry escaping him.

It was as though that was what his mind was waiting for, his breath shaking as his cry bounced off the cement walls. When he tried to inhale, his nasal passages echoed in the unfamiliarity of inflammation and he found himself face-to-face with the camera once more. It was the first time he was waiting for the American to make a comment, but when nothing but silence followed, all he could focus on was the muted sounds from himself.

The silence from the other men in the room only seemed to cause his reaction to worsen, and as he was still trying to contain his emotional imbalance, all his brain could focus on was the eyes and camera on him, watching him falter – watching and recording the one reaction he thought himself immune to so long ago.


End file.
